It was three in the morning when the call came through.
I nodded. I’d heard this music before. The same tune, different key. The gambler’s desperation doesn’t discriminate—it’ll eat your mortgage, your wedding ring, and then, on a bad night, your own flesh and blood if it means one more hour at the table. vice stories
“I’m sorry,” he said. To me. To the boy. To the ghost of the man he used to be. It was three in the morning when the call came through